Memento Mori
by StopTalkingAtMe
Summary: Twenty-five years after leaving for Scotland and vanishing without a trace, Jonathan Reid returns to Edgar Swansea's life in much the same way he left it: half-dead, disoriented, and drenched in blood. (Jonathan/Edgar)


**A/N: Written for Yuletide 2018. The pairing is Jonathan/Edgar. Please note this story contains sexual content, biting, and blood drinking. As always, all comments are appreciated, including constructive criticism.**

* * *

**One**

When Edgar was a boy, he'd been afraid of the dark. There were times when it seemed to him like a lifetime ago, but of course it __was __a lifetime ago: some threescore and eight years ago he was born, and never mind that he didn't look a day over forty-three.

At school that fear of darkness was an endless source of humiliation, and those were the days before modern electricity became commonplace. His was not the sort of school that appreciated slightly built boys who weren't keen on dashing about on rugby pitches in torrential rain, or who flinched when cricket balls came pelting at them at breakneck speed, or who still occasionally cried at night.

Nor did it help that his father had begun to develop a reputation as an eccentric thanks to his membership of the Brotherhood of Saint Paul's Stole, although ironically it was Edgar's mother who'd been the true legacy of that order. Half her life she'd spent trying to escape it. It was out of respect for her that he'd waited until relatively late in life to join – she was determined that a different path should be his – but he had been steeped in the Brotherhood's works from the very beginning.

Even as a boy he believed, and he knew the truth: that the entirety of mankind's search for knowledge was a quest to illuminate the world so that the monsters that dwelled in the shadows, amongst whose number he supposed he ought to count himself these days, could be driven back. And still he never knew true darkness until he came to the Elms.

In London, there was always a source of light somewhere, even after the blackout was declared: a window incorrectly masked, a fire burning somewhere in the depths of the city, searchlights roaming across the sky in hunt of German bombers, the silvery false moons of barrage balloons.

The countryside came as something of a shock.

Vampires were urban creatures at heart, forever cursed to be at odds with their twin natures. Reclusive and wary of mortals on the one hand, yet drawn to those vast conflagrations of life, the great cities and towns on the other. Although perhaps it wasn't life that they were drawn to.

Jonathan had told him once of running into foreign vampires in the streets of London during the 1918 epidemic, as though the suffering it caused were an entertaining spectacle put on for their amusement, and these days, while Great Britain had so far escaped the worst of this second great war, Edgar could sense something great and terrible massing on the horizon in Europe. Death's song, perhaps, singing out to whatever disease ran in his veins.

Even before his rebirth, he preferred to have the ebb and noise of the city about him. The theatre, lectures, exhibitions: there was always something to keep him busy. He even missed the red brickwork and draughty corridors of that fine old Victorian institution, Pembroke Hospital, although the Elms had plenty of draughty corridors of its own. Edgar hadn't been able to work at the Pembroke for many years out of necessity – too many East End matriarchs who never forgot a face – but he was certain he'd be back one day, assuming the building survived the Blitz. Even if by some miracle he should be delivered of his need to avoid direct sunlight, he'd already had quite enough of the countryside to know that a quiet country practice was not for him, pleasant as a life spent pootling in a motor car along peaceful lanes to visit wealthy patients might seem.

It was dark the night Jonathan Reid came back into his life, almost twenty-five years after his departure for Scotland, and he returned in much the same manner that he'd entered it in the first place: half-dead, disoriented, and drenched in blood.

Looking back, Edgar could never be quite certain what it was that put him in mind of hunting that night. The Regency manor house he could sense at a distance was shuttered up so tightly that not the slightest sliver of light could escape, and the night was overcast and threatening rain. There was no moon or stars to light his way as he let himself out of his modest little cottage which stood on the grounds of the estate. True, he was hungry, and the need for blood pressed urgently at him, but not a day had gone by since his rebirth when that hadn't been the case. The hunger could never truly be assuaged for long, only for those blessed few seconds after embracing a mortal, and he had not directly fed from a living human body for over two decades. Animals were a different matter, but Edgar never had been much of a hunter.

It was as if something primeval had stirred inside him, drawn to the darkness. On a night like this, the last vestiges of his boyhood fears were chased away, and he truly became a creature of the night, stalking deer through a forest black as pitch with teeth and nails and shadow. He was the source of the tales told of red eyes burning in the bitter night.

All fanciful nonsense, of course, but it had a strange sort of power even so.

Beneath his feet the grass was damp with dew, and every scent sharp and crisp and clear. He wasn't the only hunter out that night. The pallid shadow of an owl's outstretched wings passed like a ghost above him. It had caught a mouse, the scent of the blood a goad to his own hunger, now sharpened to a keen point. He'd fed, but not as recently as he would have liked. The other evening, a nurse had cut herself on broken glass, and it had taken all his willpower to stop himself from gripping her wrist and bringing her hand to his mouth, the hot iron scent of her blood so strong it made him dizzy.

But he resisted. He stitched up the wound, even with his heart hammering and his teeth prickling with the urge to rip and bite and tear, and made a quiet note to take closer notice of his body and urges in future. He'd been growing complacent.

The scream came from the woods. Not human.

Had Edgar been tucked up in bed or at his desk working in the safe and warm, he might have put it down to a fox, but now he recognised the eerie scream of a Skal, thick with hunger and hatred and suffering. It was followed by another cry, and this one was unmistakably human, the bellow of a man under attack. Curiosity won over caution and Edgar moved into the woods so fast that to the mortal eye he would have seemed to have dissolved into smoke.

His hunger had risen. In the darkness, he sped through the forest so fast it was a wonder he didn't smash into the trunk of a tree, or blind himself on a branch, but he had given himself over to the hunt and was working on an older instinct that didn't quite belong to him. He could smell the turned-meat reek of the Skals, and they snarled as if they had cornered an animal.

There was blood in the air. Edgar slowed his pace as the man cried out again, and briefly wondered, as he ripped a branch from a tree, the palms of his hands itching at the touch of the living wood, what he really intended to do once he'd rescued him.

Since his rebirth, his thoughts had always had a deceptive undertow. Why, of __course __he intended only to save the mortal, because that was basic human decency, but there was a second set of thoughts lying just beneath, quieter but more insistent, that made Edgar wonder if his true intention was not to act as saviour, but to claim the Skals' prey for himself.

A squirming sensation passed over his skin and he rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. And then he darted out between the trees, ready to strike.

Blood. A searing splash of crimson burning bright as the sun, splattered against a tree. It was the first, and briefly the only, thing he saw. Then he became aware of a maddened Skal twisting towards him. Another scrabbled on the ground with a struggling figure.

The closer Skal hissed, closing in. He lashed at it with the branch, remembering at the last moment that Skals don't share the same aversion to living plant life that Ekons do. Which was… unfortunate.

It flinched, cowering away, covering its face with its arms. A feint. It whipped back, darting beneath the wildly thrashing branch and coming up inside his reach. It slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. Teeth snapped inches from his throat.

This, __this, __was why he'd chosen a life of peace. Because he was no bloody good at the alternative. That was another lesson he'd learned early at school and probably should have paid more attention to. And he learned a second vital lesson as he tried in vain to stab the branch upwards to pierce the Skal's neck: simply ripping a branch directly from a tree seldom makes for an adequate stake.

A shadow loomed over them, gripped the Skal and hauled it away.

Edgar's first realisation was that this was no mortal he had attempted to rescue but a fellow Ekon, and his next was one of utter bewilderment as the Ekon buried his teeth in the shrieking, scrabbling Skal's flesh. __Oh good Lord__, he thought, and opened his mouth on numbed instinct as the Skal blood sprayed over him. It had a faint sour taste, like vinegary communion wine.

The Ekon let the Skal drop and stared down at Edgar with no sign of recognition, breathing harshly and wavering on his feet.

He should have known straight away. How he hadn't he couldn't think, because suddenly, despite the reek of the Skals and the clamour of the blood, the Ekon was all he could smell. Into that frozen tableau came his own voice, hushed and disbelieving.

"__Jonathan__?"

The Ekon collapsed. And another instinct was triggered, that of the doctor. Edgar moved at once, feeling for him in the darkness. No need to check the pulse since he could sense it, but Jonathan's skin was waxy and too cool to the touch. He was alive, barely, although he would recover with time, but mainly Edgar couldn't quite believe it was him. Still, here he was, yielding to the touch, his distinctive features unmistakeable.

"My God." Edgar exhaled a sharp breath, hooked Jonathan's arm over his shoulder and heaved him up. He was a dead weight, and very nearly a foot taller, but even so he was much lighter than Edgar had expected, as if he'd grown much less substantial in the intervening twenty odd years. "Come on, dear boy," Edgar murmured into his hair. "Let's get you home."

* * *

In some ways he hadn't changed at all. In others he might have been a completely different man. His hair and beard were neat as always, not having grown so much as a millimetre since his untimely death. It was this lack of change that made the rest of him so disconcerting. His eyes were hollow and deep with shadows. And he was far, far thinner than Edgar remembered, dressed in grimy blood-stained clothes that had been well-tailored once.

He sat in the chair, as still as a statue, his eyes following Edgar about the room. He looked almost as wild as the most savage Skals, dangerous enough that Edgar kept one eye fixed on him as he moved about, aware that to Jonathan everything living would look like prey.

Even when Edgar had first made his acquaintance in an insalubrious bar in the docks of London, freshly turned and floundering in a new world he knew nothing about, he hadn't seen Jonathan so close to madness.

"What on earth happened to you, Jonathan?"

No reply.

Edgar knelt before him, eyeing up the wounds near his collarbone, the flesh ragged and torn. One bite in particular was especially nasty, so deep he suspected it had left teeth marks in the bone.

"I'll clean your wound, if you'll permit me," he said, raising the cotton pad and bottle of iodine so Jonathan could see. He didn't look and gave no hint that he understood, but nor did he flinch away when Edgar touched the cotton pad to his neck, and gently began to wipe away the Skal's reeking saliva. The only reaction was a slight drawing back of his bloodless lips from his teeth.

"I feel a little like Androclus. Rather nastier than a thorn, though," Edgar murmured, carefully dabbing at the wound. "And Skal saliva prevents the swift healing of flesh in our kind. It really is fascinating stuff, Jonathan. You know it inhibits blood clotting in humans too? Just think of the applications in medical science..." Jonathan's breath stirred Edgar hair. He glanced up, found Jonathan staring at him, pupils shrunk to pinpricks in the pale blue irises.

"You really don't remember me, do you?" Edgar asked. Again there was no response. An electric prickle of fear ran down Edgar's spine, but it was edged with excitement, a thrill that skirted very close to joy at finally seeing his Maker again, despite the terrible condition he was in. He set the cotton pad down and leaned closer, his hands resting upon Jonathan's knees. "Are you hungry, Jonathan?"

Of course. Of __course. __Edgar could feel his hunger, surging out from him in waves. It rekindled his own thirst, and reminded him of a silly fantasy he'd harboured in the early years when he was still certain Jonathan would come back: the two of them hunting together, loping through field and forest, after deer in Richmond Park, perhaps, or, more likely, rats in Southwark.

Jonathan's wounds were already starting to heal. "All done." Edgar stood up. "Wait here, I'll be back shortly."

Convalescent home or not, the Elms was still a house, and Lord Acton and his family were resident there when they weren't enjoying the decadent Ritzkrieg life in London. Lord Acton was a long-standing mortal member of the Ascalon Club, and knew very well what Edgar was. It was Lord Acton who had provided the cottage on the grounds for his use, a most kind and generous offer, although Edgar had no doubt he had an ulterior motive. The Elms was far enough away from London to escape the worst of the bombing, but it was by no means completely safe. Lord Acton must have considered it something of a coup to have his very own pet vampire at his beck and call in case he or his wife were mortally wounded in an air raid.

Edgar also suspected Lord Acton was operating under the mistaken apprehension that once a vampire left the building, it would not be able to return without a further invitation. He ought to have done more research. Aside from Edgar's own slightly battered moral code and the threat of Ascalon crashing down upon his head like a ton of bricks, there would be nothing at all to stop him if he returned with murder on his mind.

It was an alarming thought.

There were times when Edgar looked back at his mortal life and was astonished at how blithe he'd been. He'd always taken precautions, but now that he knew a little more about vampires, and how all-encompassing blood-hunger could be, there was a part of him that wanted to take that younger version of himself by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. Good Lord, it was a wonder he managed to survive at all. Very few of the vampires he'd met over the years had been as strong-willed as Jonathan Reid, including Edgar himself.

There was nothing at all to stop him from stealing into the manor house like a thief and going to the rooms where the nurses slept.

He gave Nurse Harvey quite the fright when he knocked softly on her door. She was dressed for bed, and pressed her hand to her heart as she smiled uncertainly at he. "Is something the matter, Doctor?"

"I'm afraid so, Nurse." He kept his voice soft and persuasive, letting compulsion enter it. "There's an urgent matter I need to attend to, and it's going to require some blood. Would you mind..."

"Of course, Doctor. We all have to do our bit, don't we?" She held the door open, and he moved past her into her room.

He wasn't proud of it, of how he'd steal their blood a pint at a time in a slow controlled leeching that left them weakened and him constantly starving and none of them happy, but at least with needle and tube there was no danger of infection, and the blood, if not the fresh hot vibrant blood direct from a living body, was still blood, and that of a healthy person. So long as it was consumed quickly, it was perfectly adequate for his needs. There was no danger of creating a Skal, or of being caught in the act like some coffin-dwelling Nosferatu, and no reason at all for the patient to die. Stolen blood, but better than the alternative. And certainly better than letting himself starve to death.

Coming home was rather like returning to a house in which he'd just locked up an angry tiger. And the worst of it was Edgar couldn't sense him. The cottage was as silent as the proverbial grave, an unfortunate metaphor, but an accurate one. Edgar let himself in, his ability to smell hampered by the bag of fresh hot blood cradled in his arms. All the way back from the manor house he had been fighting an aching need to forget Jonathan and drink it all down himself. It wouldn't be enough – a scant pint of blood could never be enough – but it might just have taken the edge off his hunger.

All his attention was so focused on that bag that he missed the movement behind him. Jonathan unfolded from the shadows, more animal than man, more Skal than Ekon, and slammed Edgar up against the wall. Thankfully the blood bag remained intact, because if that had popped, spilling still warm blood over Edgar's hands, he wasn't sure what would have happened. They might have descended into a frenzied blood orgy, perhaps, the likes of which he could only imagine in his most maddened dreams. He'd heard some interesting rumours about the Ascalon club...

As it was, with the solid mass of Jonathan's body against his back, all he could do was brace himself against the wall while Jonathan pressed his face against his neck with the low rumbling growl of an animal about to strike.

"Stop that at once, Jonathan," Edgar said, a sharp rebuke that sounded faintly ludicrous.

Jonathan curled his arm around his chest, cupping Edgar's jaw and tilting his head to the side to expose his neck. His hand slid down, finding its inevitable way to the blood bag, and the growl in Jonathan's throat deepened in pitch. His fingers spanned over Edgar's, twining between them like a lover's.

"It's for you," Edgar told him, although frankly he wasn't certain he wanted to give it to Jonathan any longer. He wanted it for himself. "A gift. It's fresh blood, and still warm."

Moving slowly and gently so as not to rile him further, Edgar slid his hand out from under Jonathan's, leaving him clutching the bag. It was harder to do than he'd anticipated. He placed his hands against the wall, and braced himself. He didn't really think Jonathan would bite him and yet in that moment, with his forehead pressing against the wall, there was part of him, wild with the scent of blood and perennially unsatisfied hunger, that desperately wanted to be bitten.

Jonathan released him without warning, bringing the bag of blood up to his mouth. He ripped into it with a guttural snarl, as it flooded his mouth. Edgar looked around. Jonathan's eyes were squeezed shut in ecstasy, the blood spilling over his chin and his chest. The back of his legs hit a chair and he sank down, and Edgar could see him clearly for what seemed like the first time, how incongruous the neatness of his hair and beard appeared when he was sucking dry a bag of blood.

His gasp of desperation when it was emptied was so heartfelt that Edgar felt a pang of guilt, and inwardly berated himself for not having taken more, although in good conscience he couldn't have, no matter how hungry his Maker. How much could he have taken? Two pints, three? And even that wouldn't have been enough. Only draining her dry and leaving her a bloodless corpse would have come anywhere near, and that he could not do. Not even for Jonathan, who now tore open the bag to lap at the insides like a kitten after butter, seeking every trace of blood. He sucked it even from his fingers, working at the dried crusts trapped beneath his fingernails with his teeth.

Disturbed to see his Maker reduced to the state of the most bestial Skal, Edgar stirred, and instantly Jonathan went still, head snapping up.

From this angle Edgar couldn't see his eyes, only his profile, which in the past had always put him in mind of Dracula, as though Jonathan had stepped straight out of the pages of Bram Stoker's novel, with Edgar playing the part of his Van Helsing (hopefully not his Renfield).

Cautiously, Edgar took a step closer and said his name.

Jonathan drew in a breath, glancing down at the remains of the blood bag clutched in his fingers. A flicker of an expression crossed his face, his heavy brow knitting in the first moment of human feeling Edgar had seen so far. __Guilt__. Here he was, caught in the act. And then he glanced up.

"Edgar?" His voice was very slight and faint, little more than an exhalation on a breath, and he sounded puzzled as if Edgar was the very last person he might have expected to see.

"Yes, Jonathan, it's me."

Jonathan held out the blood bag in a wordless plea.

Edgar shook his head, feeling another painful pang pierce his heart, because he knew only too well how Jonathan must be suffering. "I'm afraid there is no more. I took as much as I judged prudent. I realise it doesn't seem like it's anywhere near enough, but there will be more, I promise you…"

He was nodding, squeezing his eyes closed as though the electric light was hurting them. "The blood… where did you..."

"One of the nurses. A most obliging young woman."

"You didn't–"

"Goodness, no. Nurse Harvey's as strong as an ox. A little weakened by the blood loss, but she'll feel right as rain in the morning, I assure you." Edgar hesitated, forced a smile. "You'd be proud of me, Jonathan. I've been following your example when it comes to feeding."

Jonathan squinted, pinching at the bridge of his nose. "The light… Would you mind..."

"Is it hurting your eyes?"

A nod, his fingers working at his brow. "Just a headache I've been struggling to shake for what feels like the longest time." Edgar turned the light off, plunging them into a twilight gloom, and Jonathan exhaled in relief. "Thank you, Edgar." For the first time, he sounded very nearly like himself again, although his voice was still hoarse.

Edgar took the opportunity to move closer to him, and settled down by the chair, trying to ignore the blood bag. "What happened to you, Jonathan? Where have you been?"

"I… I can't quite seem to remember." There was an edge to his voice, the first hint of mounting desperation and panic.

"All right, not to worry." Edgar caught hold of his hand and squeezed. "Listen to me, Jonathan. I think you've had a nasty shock tonight. Perhaps you should get some sleep, and with any luck everything may look very different tomorrow."

He nodded, started to his feet, and very nearly lost his balance until Edgar caught him, not at all happy at how weak he seemed.

Edgar already knew something about the effects of starvation in Ekons. With the help of Old Bridget, the leader of the sewer Skals of East London, he'd conducted some experiments into the withholding of blood, testing his own limits and how long a vampire could be expected to survive without nourishment. The Brotherhood had always assumed that period to be indefinite, although after five months Bridget decided to bring the experiment to an end as his howling was beginning to upset the Skals. It took a further two months before she judged it safe enough to release him.

If he'd had to guess, he would have said Jonathan hadn't fed in a very long time, at least three months. He'd need to feed again and soon.

"The spare room is this way," Edgar told him, leading him up the stairs and along the landing. "I'm afraid I haven't any clothes that will fit you, but I'm sure I'll be able to dig you something out tomorrow."

"Thank you." On the threshold of the spare room, Jonathan looked around. "Is this my room at the Pembroke? It seems different."

"The __Pembroke__?" Edgar almost dropped him, so startled was he by the question. "No, Jonathan. We're in Hertfordshire." He managed a chuckle, but even to his own ears it sounded strained. "You really have been away from Whitechapel for too long if you mistook this for the Pembroke."

Jonathan shook his head, bringing his hand up to his forehead again. "You mentioned a nurse, I thought… I assumed this was the hospital."

"It's a convalescent home, so not a hospital as such. I live on the grounds of the estate. It used to be the gamekeeper's house, back when the estate had a gamekeeper." As Jonathan dropped onto the bed, the springs squeaking beneath the unexpected weight, Edgar reached on instinct for the light switch, and caught himself. "A relatively quiet life for me, or at least it was until you returned."

Wondering if he'd ever be able to rid the room of the smell of the blood, he waited for Jonathan to lie down, but he stayed perched on the edge of the bed.

"Well..." Edgar said. "Good night then. I'm sure things will look very different indeed after you've had a rest."

And he stepped towards the doorway, partly to escape the smell of blood, and partly because he couldn't bear his Maker's blank eyed look and the reddish shadows beneath his eyes. At the threshold he froze, struck by the strangest feeling that Usher Talltree would be waiting for him on the landing.

For once in a life of relative certainties Edgar had absolutely no idea what he ought to do. The Brotherhood had made it excruciatingly clear that he would be expected to inform them immediately if his Maker ever showed his face in England again, but then again here was Jonathan right in front of him, who… well, who very clearly needed his help.

Jonathan lifted his head like a cat tasting something on the air. His eyes narrowed to slits, and his mouth parted, and Edgar knew very well what it was he was listening for – the manor house, not so far off that they couldn't sense the tug of blood. In Jonathan's half-starved state, the hunger would have sharpened every one of his senses, the need to feed blotting out both the world and the higher functions of the mind: love, decency, conscience, all gone and nothing left but hunger. His fingers dug into the quilt, and when he spoke, his voice shook.

"You need to stop me, Edgar."

"Don't be ridiculous," Edgar said, although he'd been starting to wonder the same thing.

"It wasn't enough. The blood you gave me. It wasn't..." Jonathan's voice broke off into a guttural snarl, and he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth to cut it off. "It's only made me hungrier. The people in that house, they're all I can smell. Their hearts, their blood…"

"You have to fight it, Jonathan. I know how overwhelming it is, believe me, but if any of us can fight it, I'm quite certain it's you..." Edgar faltered. He'd believed that once, and had kept believing it all through the years, even despite Talltree's reports. He would have sworn on his mother's life that Jonathan was not a killer, but now that Jonathan was sitting before him, and so __changed __, the truth was he had no idea. Nor was Jonathan listening. He was lost, his head dropped back, his eyes narrowed with the promise of blood.

Edgar rolled up his sleeve, baring his wrist, and bit down until his own blood flooded his mouth. Jonathan stiffened, his head darting around like a snake's.

"I realise it's not the same as mortal blood," Edgar said, "but I offer it to you freely and willingly. My blood, Jonathan. Drink."

Jonathan gripped Edgar's arm, breathing in the scent. Blood trickled down Edgar's forearm, and it was to the inside of the wrist, rather than to the bite, that Jonathan brought his mouth, brushing lips still sticky with mortal blood against the fine tracery of veins. His tongue darted out to taste the skin. Off balance, Edgar placed his hand on Jonathan's shoulder to steady himself, feeling how the muscles tautened and bunched beneath the filthy shirt. Although whether Jonathan was readying himself to drink or to prevent himself from drinking Edgar could not know.

__I am not prey__, he thought, with a sudden savage fierceness that was utterly unlike him.

Jonathan's grip tightened.

"You don't have to do this, Edgar." There was anger in his voice. A tone Edgar had come to know well from him, and it made Jonathan seem very nearly like his old self. Something else he'd forgotten how much he missed, that anger.

"You have to feed."

Jonathan was on the verge of losing control. Edgar pressed a hand to the back of Jonathan's head, where his hair was grimy and matted, and slid his arm down, bringing the wound to Jonathan's mouth. He shuddered, and drank.

It was not a sensation Edgar ever could have adequately prepared himself for. He'd never allowed anyone – human or Skal or Ekon – to feed directly from his body. He'd traded his blood with Bridget partly from altruism and partly as payment for her help and advice, but it had always been a clinical, sterile transaction. It had never once been anything like this. He hadn't been prepared for the simple joy of it, and he wondered if it had been the same way for Jonathan when he'd turned him, this glorious act of loving worship.

Jonathan fed, slow at first, then harder, ripping into the arm with his teeth because Edgar hadn't bitten deeply enough, and the flow was insufficient. It was agonising; his teeth grated against the bone, but the pleasure of the moment was enough to drown out the pain, if not obliterate it completely. If anything, the pain seemed to make the pleasure that much brighter, and in that moment, this one act seemed all Edgar ever truly wanted.

After the clinical sterility of needles and blood bags, this animalistic act of ripping at his own flesh in a darkened room seemed to Edgar to lend the moment meaning, and whatever bonds already existed between them twined ever tighter.

It had been so long he'd almost forgotten how it felt to be around Jonathan, the way his presence seemed to make Edgar's blood burn, as if his very veins ran molten. When he'd first been reborn, he'd put it down to his new state and had gloried in it; it was savage and beautiful and wondrous, and really not so very terrible a thing for a doctor to be, all things considered. And then Jonathan had left, and he'd realised that at least some of that wonder had been down to Jonathan's proximity. Still, even when his morale was at its lowest ebb, there hadn't been a single moment when he'd regretted his choice.

Jonathan's arm snaked around his back, drawing him closer. Edgar couldn't tell if the gesture was meant to be intimate or the instinct of a killer to prevent his prey from escaping, and he honestly didn't care. The velvet fuzz of Jonathan's close cut hair rasped against his fingers.

Jonathan was fighting it now, his movements jerky, as if he desperately wanted to pull his head away, and Edgar wished Jonathan's hair was longer so he could wind his fingers around it and urge him to keep drinking until he was sated or until Edgar was drained dry, whichever came first.

He would have given him everything he had. Every drop. He would have carved his own flesh from his bones if Jonathan had asked him to, if their kind could be sated with mere meat.

Edgar dropped his head to Jonathan's throat, his lips peeling back. He would have sworn he had no intention of biting him. He wanted only to breathe in the scent of the blood that rushed through the veins beneath his Maker's skin. Jonathan's hand slid up beneath his shirt, nails scratching at his back in warning as Edgar pressed his teeth against the skin, not yet breaking it, although he wanted to taste that blood again so badly he ached.

But Jonathan had little enough to spare. This was enough, Edgar told himself, this was as far as he would go, although even through the blood-haze of hunger, he already knew it was a lie. A moment or two longer, and he wouldn't be able to stop himself.

Jonathan tore away, gasping. "Enough," he said, and all Edgar could think, blinded by hunger, was __No! __And damn him, if Jonathan wasn't going to feed to satiation, then why the hell shouldn't __he__? As he readied himself for the strike, Jonathan caught his other wrist and said his name. That voice was the only thing that could have pierced through the haze.

Edgar eased his mouth away from Jonathan's throat. Pressed his forehead against the damp skin there instead, faint from blood loss. Jonathan's hand brushed over his hair, almost tender.

"I took too much."

"No, no, I'm..." A brief moment of dizziness. "I'll be fine in a minute. Just let me… let me catch my breath." He pulled back, and stepped out of reach, wiping his face. "Besides, I offered it willingly."

"You couldn't have know what it meant."

"Oh?" Edgar said. "And you do? I'm no stranger to vampires, Jonathan. I'm not some… naive young virgin baring her neck for the count." His arm was painful now, prickling with pins and needles as the flesh healed. He raised it, studying the wound as it knit back together before his eyes. He never wearied of that sight, a miracle encapsulated in his own quick-healing flesh.

"No?" And there it was, his reward, the first sign of Jonathan's black humour creeping back into his voice.

"Of course not. I've been quite busy in your absence." A heavy silence met his words. Edgar glanced up from his arm to find Jonathan eyeing him warily, and was reminded that they'd parted on terms that were, if not exactly hostile, then not without tension. "I've done a fair amount of research into my – into __our __– condition."

"Edgar..." Jonathan hesitated, looking as if he wanted to continue, then shook his head and rubbed at his mouth. When he found the blood smeared on his chin, he went still. Edgar gave him a weak smile, and he half-clenched his fist in a moment of indecision before he made up his mind and smeared his fingers on his filthy shirt. Edgar tried not to feel hurt. "Should I be worried?"

"I certainly hope not. Not about me, at any rate, but we do need to keep you fed. Amongst other things I've been studying the effects of starvation on the Ekon body and mind. I've learnt a lot. Enough to know that playing the miser when it comes to blood is a little like playing with a lighted match around gunpowder. Eventually it's bound to blow up in your face."

Jonathan tilted his head. "Do I want to know..."

"Not really, no. Although I couldn't have done it without Old Bridget's assistance. She really is the most remarkable woman, Skal or not. And speaking of remarkable women..." Edgar swallowed. "Are we going to address the elephant in the room?"

"No, we are not."

"I see." Edgar stared at him. Jonathan had dropped his head, and sat hunched with his hands clasped and his elbows resting on his knees. His parting was matted with dried blood. "Well, fair enough. None of my business, I suppose."

"No," Jonathan said, quietly, grimly. "It isn't."

"You do realise I'm not the only one who's going to be asking questions? Where you've been, what you've been doing..."

Jonathan went still, lifting his gaze. There was a strange look about his eyes, not angry, but wary, almost fearful, as if whatever he thought Edgar might be about to say terrified him. He never had been a man who was easily frightened.

"The Brotherhood will want to speak to you. We've done our best to keep an eye on you, but you might as well have been smoke for the last couple of decades."

Almost. They'd caught glimpses of him over the years. Never anything certain, no confirmed sightings, but the stories they'd heard had been enough for the Ban of the Dragon to be suggested for the first time in over a century. It had been Frederick Haughton who had brought it up, although Edgar was certain it was Talltree who was behind it. Haughton was far too ineffectual and indecisive to venture an idea like that without at least a gentle nudge. But there was nothing in Talltree's serene expression to indicate his opinion in the matter as he smoothly laid out the cards. His eyes were concealed behind the smoked glass lenses of his spectacles, but Edgar knew he was watching for his reaction.

__Do you hear his voice, Edgar? __His voice was gentle, his words anything but. __Does he whisper to you like a lover when you lay your head down? __

Jonathan was shaking his head. Edgar clamped down on his frustration and did his best to jolly him along. "Oh, come now, Jonathan, we're past all that, aren't we? Anything you tell me, naturally I'll keep in the strictest confidence."

"I can't tell you because I don't remember. I feel as though I've been in a dream these last few years."

Edgar nodded distractedly and pushed his hand through his disarrayed hair. He wasn't certain he believed it, but he felt too weary to argue. All he wanted to do – aside from feed, of course – was crawl into bed and sleep for a week. "Perhaps we should both get some rest. Let me take your clothes and I'll put them aside to be washed."

As Jonathan undressed, he glanced up, and Edgar realised he'd been running his fingers over the smooth patch of freshly healed skin on his arm. He cleared his throat sheepishly and tugged down his shirt sleeve to cover it. "Well… goodnight."

Jonathan murmured Edgar's name when he was at the doorway, and he glanced back with something that might have been hope if moving hadn't brought on a wave of dizziness so strong that his legs crumpled beneath him. He had to cling onto the door frame for support. "Do you know where I've been?" Jonathan asked.

"Not for certain, no."

"But you have your suspicions."

"I really..." Edgar drew a breath. "Do you know, I think you were right, Jonathan. You did take a little too much blood. I'm feeling quite faint."

Jonathan gave a grim little laugh and lay down, tucking his hand beneath his head and closing his eyes. "I know you too well, Edgar. I can tell when you're trying to change the subject."

"It's been twenty-five years," Edgar protested.

His eyes opened and he stared up at the ceiling. "Has it really been that long?"

"It's 1943. Another war, another hospital. I might almost say it feels like old times although we're a long way from Whitechapel–"

"And there's no epidemic." Jonathan frowned. "There isn't, is there?"

"Not that I know of, no. Thank heavens for small mercies."

"Goodnight, Edgar." He'd closed his eyes again, and he brought his hand to cover them to block out even the slightest hint of light. Edgar lingered a moment or two in the doorway as Jonathan's heartbeat slowed still further.

"Goodnight," he said, and wasn't sure if Jonathan heard him. His dark hair and beard made him look even paler, and with his eyes closed and sunken and his skin waxy pallor, he seemed to be wearing a death mask. The only colour about him was the blood staining his lips.

Edgar escaped into the corridor with Jonathan's clothes bundled in his arms. He closed the door and sagged against it, at a loss. It took a few moments before he'd recovered enough composure to set the discarded clothes aside for the daily woman who came in on a regular basis to do the cleaning and laundry. It would raise an eyebrow, but judging by her ostentatious crucifix and her long-standing service to Lord Acton she already suspected what he was. It was almost impossible to keep secrets like that from servants.

Something heavy was weighing down the pocket of Jonathan's trousers like a fishing weight. When Edgar pulled it out he found a small glass vial that nestled neatly into the hollow of his palm as if it belonged there. It held a dark red viscous liquid like clotting blood. Ancient, like the relic of a saint. The vial was sealed tight and he could smell nothing at all, but still an urgent thirst caught in his throat. He tilted it, watching with avidity the thick liquid oozing this way and that, until he realised he was salivating and closed his fist about it with a shiver. Carefully, ignoring his intense reluctance to part with the ampoule, he set it on the dresser outside Jonathan's room where he'd find it when he woke.

In the end Edgar went to bed, although he already knew he didn't have a hope of getting any sleep, no matter how exhausted he was.

Ekons didn't sleep much as a rule. They could survive without it for long stretches of time with no ill effects, but like any mortal burning the candle at both ends it caught up with them eventually. Exhaustion made the hunger worse and Edgar needed to rest. Needed it the same way he needed to feed, like an ache in his chest, his limbs weighted with lead, but he knew sleep would be a long time in coming.

A knot of frustration tightened in his chest at having been stolen of the chance to gorge once more on the blood of his Maker, so sweet and heady and rich he could still taste it in his dreams, and not the few meagre mouthfuls Jonathan had allowed when he turned him, but a fountain of it, spilling over his lips, his tongue. So much it could have drowned him.

He wasn't a fanciful man under most circumstances. Only when it came to Jonathan.

If Edgar closed his eyes, he'd hear him. Talltree had been right about that, even if he was wrong about everything else. Jonathan's voice, that deep wicked voice, like a dagger sheathed in velvet, and always on the cusp of sleep. One day he feared he'd lay his head down and close his eyes and that voice would remain silent, and he'd know Jonathan was gone. Killed by the Guard or a rival Ekon or burned up like a heretic at the stake.

Just so long as it didn't happen at the hands of the Brotherhood. He didn't think he could have borne that.


End file.
